


Too Good to Last

by ValmureEld



Series: I Tried Not to Get Into the Witcher and Look Where That Got Me [12]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, I can't tag tonight, Insecurity, Nightmares, Romance, Uncertainty, Worry, assurance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 10:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12106524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValmureEld/pseuds/ValmureEld
Summary: Yennefer met Geralt at Corvo Bianco and everything was supposed to be easy from there. But Yennefer has never been allowed to keep her happiness before. What makes this time different? One shot, Geralt/Yennefer. Angsty but not ultimately sad.





	Too Good to Last

**Author's Note:**

> Just working on moving all my Witcher stories over onto this account.

For a few months, she was fine. They were fine. Corvo Bianco was beautiful beyond anything she could have wanted for her final home, if only because it was real in its beauty. Geralt had paid out quite a bit of coin to work the place over but she still found cracks in the plaster or saw gaps in the floorboards. It was subtle, it was small, and she would never admit it but the imperfection put her at ease that this was real. This was all real and just maybe it could stay for a while.

After those few months, she was still happy. She was content not to be at court, to spend long hours reading bad romance novels just because she could. Sometimes Geralt would sit with her, his back resting warm against her thigh as he looked out over the vineyards. She'd read quietly and snort at the cheesy, over-done lines. He'd smile at her and she would read the worst ones out loud. They laughed about them together and wrote their own lines in silent touch and quiet breathing most nights.

The days were beautiful and gradually she learned how to manage the heat without sacrificing her wardrobe.

It was the nights that grew difficult. Left with peace and quiet the nightmares returned, filtering like poison into the cracks that politics and sleepless hours studying spells used to fill. She could choose to put down the books and close her ears to the affairs of court—but all the destruction that came before their well deserved happy ending was still there. She feared it always would be.

Most nights she'd wake clutching Geralt and the heat of his body, the strong presence of him alive and vital at her side served to chase away the phantoms. Most of them were about losing him. She'd never dreamed about Rivia or about a thousand phantom deaths when they were apart, but now that she had him some evil, stunted thing in her mind wanted to whisper that she would surely lose him again.

Some nights he had to wake her with a firm grip that gentled as she gasped and her eyes flew open. She'd dig her nails into his arms, once scratching so deep she drew blood. He'd only turned her gently on her back and lay with his weight against her, grounding her, pressing her beneath him so she couldn't help but feel the healthy throb of his heart against her breasts or the flex of muscle as he shifted against her to kiss away tears she'd shed unconsciously. He never spoke a word or asked her what was wrong, he just kissed her and held her and buried his face in her neck until she relaxed enough to fall back to sleep. He never mentioned her tears.

Sorceresses don't cry.

When Ciri came to visit for a while the nightmares were disturbed and she was so filled with joy that she almost forgot them completely.

Six months after she first arrived in Corvo Bianco and only three weeks after Ciri had gone back out on the path, she woke gasping and trembling to a cold bed.

She was laying on her stomach and her hair fell around her eyes and over her shoulders, vibrating with the breath that was too fast and too shallow. Her hand reached out for Geralt, searching, but her fingers fell on cold cloth in the dark. She fisted her hand and sat up in a panic, gripping the sheets and trying to get her breathing under control. Logically she knew that he must have just gotten up, but despite the familiar surroundings of their bedroom she couldn't shake the feeling of her hands covered in blood. The smell still lingered, the cold sheets made her doubt, and it was only a surge of anger and frustration that prevented her from crying. She sat in the bed, shoulders hunched, knuckles white as she gripped the sheets, her eyes screwed shut as she tried to force herself to accept the truth.

Geralt had been mortally injured in Rivia. His blood, his very life force had soaked her, chilled her. But that was not where it ended and that was not where they were now. They were safe.

He was safe.

She opened her eyes and stared into the wall, not really seeing anything solid. An irrational anger spiked through her and she stared hard into the empty space where he should have been. Where was he? Why would he just get up and leave for this long? If he'd merely gone to relieve himself the sheets would not have grown cold. Not in Toussant. Still trembling, she got up to look for him.

The house was very dark and the moon slanted through the windows. Yennefer did not have far to go. They had a nice home together, but it was small. He wasn't in the kitchen by the hearth where he sometimes liked to kneel before the fire and meditate while he brewed things. He wasn't in the dining area polishing his swords as he was wont to do sometimes when he was feeling nostalgic.

She found him in the guest room, illuminated by the light of several candles. He was sitting on the bed, legs crossed and arms resting on his knees. Not meditating, just sitting pensive. He looked up when she came in, his eyes reflecting the firelight for an instant the way a cat's did. "Yen?"

She folded her arms, standing at the top of the stairs and staring at him. Her anger had not subsided. "What are you doing?" She hadn't meant it to sound half so harsh. But that was how it came out.

He turned his head and reached out to pick up a basilisk scale Ciri had left on the nightstand. "I couldn't sleep," he admitted, his voice a murmur. "I was missing her. This room still smells like her."

"It smells like dead things and poorly treated draconid leather," Yennefer said, her tone short.

Geralt shrugged one shoulder without looking at her, rubbing his thumb across the glossy scale as though lost in deep thought. Finally, he placed it back and rest his hand in his lap. He looked at her, his brow furrowed. "You're angry. Why?"

Her lips pressed together and she hugged herself tighter, turning away. "You were gone."

She heard him get up and walk quietly over to her, his hand settling on her forearm. She tensed against his touch but he didn't let her pull away, instead standing behind her and dipping his head to kiss her shoulder. His thumb was warm where it rubbed against her skin. When he breathed against her neck her eyelids fluttered and she clenched the hand that simply would not stop trembling.

"Yen," he coaxed carefully. "What is this about? Does this have anything to do with your nightmares?"

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter at that and turned her head away, though she did not break his hold on her.

She could feel those bright, intelligent eyes studying her though she refused to meet them.

"All right," he said after a few moments. "You don't have to tell me." He kissed the back of her neck and wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing his chest into her back and resting his head against hers. She forced herself to unclench her hand and rest it on him, fingers sliding along his wrist until she found what she was looking for. Her eyes opened when his pulse thumped gentle against her fingers and she stared down at the way his hands locked across her stomach. Her throat closed up painfully and she turned her head back, pressing her nose into his jaw.

"The last time we had peace for this long was in the Orchard," she said finally, her voice barely a whisper but more than adequate for Geralt's sensitive ears. He pressed his lips against her shoulder as though encouraging her to continue, but he made no comment.

"And the Wild Hunt destroyed that. Before the hunt we finally made the choice to do this—to be something else and Rivia-" she cut off, no longer feeling his pulse. She was gripping his wrist hard because if she didn't she may find her hands trembling again and him no more than a phantom. She had to feel him solid and living beneath her.

"I wondered if you dreamed about Rivia," he admitted, gentling his hold on her until she was able to do the same on his wrist. Slowly, he turned her in his arms, lifting her chin and meeting her violet eyes. "Just because we have it now doesn't mean we are destined to lose it. This is our end, Yen. Not Rivia, not the Orchard, not Kaer Morhen or all those miserable years we spent with other people or by ourselves. This is where we are now."

She looked into his eyes for several long moments, her lips pressed together with uncertainty, her brow furrowed. She reached up and cradled his head, tracing his scars, memorizing his beautiful features. She sighed after a long time, pressing her head into his chest and letting her arms get trapped between them. He squeezed her against him, bending his head to kiss the side of her neck again.

"I felt you die," she said at last, voice thick with tears she would absolutely refuse to shed. "I saw the fires, smelled the smoke, the ash, the burning flesh. Your blood was going cold as it soaked my trousers...I-" she pressed her brow into his collarbone. "I felt you take your last breaths, heard the gurgle of blood you choked on. I sensed the very last heartbeat you would ever have." She had to swallow. "And when I woke...the bed was cold."

Her voice was trembling as badly as she was by the time she finished and Geralt stroked her hair as he listened.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there. I still dream about Rivia sometimes, but it's an entirely different experience for me. I don't know what I would do if I had to keep watching you die." He brushed her cheek with his thumb, trailing his hand lightly down the side of her neck and over her arm until he reached her hand. He laced their fingers and adjusted them against his chest. "All I can do is tell you it wasn't real. Not this time. Rivia is long past us."

He bent his head and breathed lightly against her bare skin, kissing her jaw, moving her hair aside to trail slow, warm kisses down her shoulder and across her collarbone. He continued to breathe deep and steady, and the warmth of that breath sent goosebumps all cross her skin. "They were far from my last breaths," he murmured, paying the same attention to the other side of her neck. Her fingers curled against his chest and she pressed into him, resting her head against him.

He lay her palm against his sternum and looked her in the eye. His gaze was intense, it always had been. It had been the second thing she'd noticed about him. His eyes had gone glassy and dull in her dream, but now they were clear and as fiercely alive as the flames lighting the room. "I know you can hear it," he said softly, cupping her jaw and drawing her close until their lips met. He kissed her slowly, and she let herself bask in the sensations. His lips on hers, his warmth melting any lingering chill, his heart beating that steady, Witcher's rhythm against her palm. And he was right, she could hear it. Just as strong as the day she'd met him and first registered it.

He broke the kiss, pressing one more to the corner of her jaw. "Need any further proof of my vitality?" he asked, smirking a little as he raised his head to look at her. She chuckled and brushed his silky hair back before wrapping her arm around him and leaning her head against his shoulder.

"Maybe later."


End file.
